Chapter 15

Strangled with a Towel 1570

The tiny village of Spott lies in a lonely part of the Scottish lowlands, a few miles from the coastal port of Dunbar and a stone’s throw from the Great North Road as it curls through the undulating countryside between Berwick and Edinburgh. Its parish church has a solitary air, standing aloof from the rest of the settlement; the graveyard boasting dramatic views over wide fields and out over the sea far beyond. But on a chill day the ambience here seems to chime with the darker side of the village’s history which includes several bloody battles between the English and the Scots. Between the late sixteenth century and the 1720s the area was also gripped by the witch finding frenzy and between 1593 and 1705 some seventy-three people locally were brought to trial charged with the crime. Few were acquitted. Today, lying by the roadside just south of Spott, is a potent reminder of the location’s gruesome past. The Witches Stone, a rough rock surrounded by railings, marks the place where one condemned witch, Marion Lillie, was burned to death in 1698. Her offence, it transpires, amounted to not much more than frightening a pregnant woman.

By the time this superstitious fervour was sweeping the locality Spott already had a reputation for more earthly criminal matters. In 1543 a former parson from the village, Robert Galbraith, who had gone on to become a judge in Edinburgh, was murdered by John Carkettle in revenge, it was alleged, for showing favouritism in a suit which had come before him. In 1570, a subsequent parson ended up in the frame for murder, but this time the crime was committed much closer to home.

A member of the new Presbyterian Church, which had been established following the Scottish Reformation, John Kello was a man who came from humble origins in Linlithgow, but had worked his way up through the church with plenty of study and determination. He was already married when he became the rector at Spott. His wife, Margaret Thomson, had borne him three children and Kello became popular locally. Yet it seems he had rapidly become dissatisfied with his lot in life, seeing both his financial situation and humble spouse as stumbling blocks to furthering his career. Not content to rely on his meagre parson’s stipend, Kello invested much of his money in property, winding up in debt when his purchases failed to deliver the hoped-for returns. At this point, Kello began to ruminate that if he were to find a new wife, one with the right connections, he might better himself after all. His eye fell upon the single daughter of the local laird. Kello would later say that what motivated him was the ‘continwall suggestione of the wicked spreit to advance myself father and farther in the world.’ Slowly, the scheming churchman began to make his plans. First, he was careful to make a will in his wife’s favour to make it look as if he expected to die first. Then, cruelly, he began to spread gentle gossip about Margaret’s unsettled state of mind.

It took Kello some time to pluck up the courage to act out his murderous fantasies. And when he did so, he opted to try and poison his wife. But Margaret merely vomited up whatever substance he hoped would do away with her, thanks, it was said, to the ‘cleannes of hir stommocke’. The callous Kello needed a new plan.

On the morning of the 24 September, 1570, Kello was giving a sermon in his church, or ‘kirk’. It impressed his congregation with its oratory and passion – a performance that was evidently somewhat more spirited than usual. The exact facts of what happened next differ depending on what account of the case is being followed. One, set down in the sixteenth century Historie of King James the Sext, by an unknown author, has it that, after the service, Kello brought some of his neighbours back to his house for some refreshments. When the party got there they found the front door locked. Kello cried out for Margaret to let them in. When she didn’t appear Kello led the group to the back door and let himself in. In the Reverend John Thomson’s version of the tale, given in the 1836 Statistical Account of Scotland, Kello had gone from the kirk after the service and asked a neighbour if, as his wife was feeling low, she would come and share dinner with them. On returning to the house they found the door and windows barricaded.

The accounts agree that once inside, Kello made a show of looking for his wife, before finding her in a bedchamber dangling by the neck from a rope. She was already dead. Feigning grief Kello then cried out, ‘My wife, my wife, my beloved wife is gone!’

As far as the local community was concerned, Margaret had committed suicide. After all, hadn’t her husband spoken of her private torments before? Now a bereaved single father, Kello was the recipient of their heartfelt sympathies. It seemed that, after a suitable period of mourning, Kello would now be free to go and make the new, ‘better’ marriage that he sought.

But Kello had made a mistake. It turned out that before his wife’s death he had, at some point, fallen sick. During his illness he had been attended by another man of the cloth, Andrew Simpson, from Dunbar. At this time Kello had told Simpson about a fevered dream he’d had, in which he was carried off by a ‘grym man before the face of an terrible judge,’ but had escaped, despite being pursued by angels wielding swords.

Following Margaret’s death it seems that Simpson became suspicious. He remembered Kello’s dream and believed, in retrospect, that it was a sign of a guilty mind. When, a few days after her death, Kello came to see Simpson, no doubt hoping to be comforted over the loss of his wife, his fellow clergyman instead accused him of being the author of a ‘crwell murther’ and urged Kello to confess his crime. Kello finally admitted it was true. Briefly, he considered fleeing the country yet concluded that while an escape would be possible, he would never be able to outrun his own troubled conscience.

After careful consideration Kello made his way to Edinburgh. Once in the city he sought out a judge and some clergymen, admitting to them that he had, indeed, murdered his wife. He told them how, on the morning of the fateful day, he had crept into Margaret’s chamber while she was at prayer. Quickly grabbing a towel, probably the nearest thing to hand, he had then strangled her. Margaret did not, it seems, die immediately. According to Kello’s florid confession, made from his prison cell, Margaret had time for a few last words in which she managed to tell her husband she bore him no ill will and was glad to go to her grave if her death could do Kello ‘vantage or pleasoure’. Once the poor woman had expired Kello put a rope around Margaret’s neck and strung up her body from a hook in the ceiling, making it look as if she had hanged herself. Here he had left her, then made his way to the front door and locked it, leaving the key inside, heading out of the building via a back exit. Kello had then made his way to the church where he calmly undertook his parish duties as if nothing untoward had happened.

Once Kello had unburdened himself to the authorities judgement came swiftly. It was decreed that Kello be hanged for Margaret’s ‘crewell and odious murthure’ and his body burned. On 4 October he was brought to the scaffold, where he expressed his contrition to the assembled crowd. He told them that if he had his time again he would cherish his wife. He also countered rumours that he was a witch. ‘I have never,’ he maintained, engaged in the ‘wicked practices of the Magiciens’.

Perhaps his candour was not altogether in vain. Usually in such cases the property of the condemned felon would be forfeited. However, in this case, Kello’s property was not confiscated in its entirety as we are told that some provision was made for his son Bartilmo and his daughters Barbara and Bessie.

So, is there any doubt as to Kello’s guilt of the pre-meditated murder of his poor wife? In his account of the case in Twelve Scottish Trials, William Roughead briefly puts forward the notion that Kello was, perhaps, not guilty at all. Did his wife indeed do away with herself and could his subsequent behaviour be explained by a disturbed mind? Why the sudden attack of remorse? Roughead speedily dismissed his own postulation, concluding that the weight of evidence, as it existed, was against Kello. Nothing further seems to have arisen in the last century which would challenge his confident assertion that Kello must have been ‘guilty of his wife’s blood.’